


a hunger

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Devotion, Discussion of Abortion, I sure hope that's the right relationship tag, Incest, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 20:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Heats have always sucked for you. You can’t describe it, because it isn’t physical. You can deal with the physical part of it, that’s normal and average. What sucks is knowing that you won’t ever find someone to take you through it.





	a hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Replasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Replasy/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Tase <3
> 
> shoutout to Ainsel for the brilliant beta work (any remaining mistakes are my own) and Lex for fielding my multiple mental breakdowns and stopping me from writing a whole nother fic out of pure anxiety

Dave presents as an alpha when he’s fourteen. You take him out for cheesecake to celebrate, patiently listen to his excited rambling, even as the aching pit in your stomach shudders wider. You step out to buy a six-pack of beer on the way back home, offer one to Dave. “Just this once,” you warn him, but he’s so excited. And you’ve never been able to say no to him, so it ends up being two cans and the warm weight of his still-small body sprawled over you on the couch, knocked out by the alcohol and hormones and excitement.

You hold him closer like it will fix you. It doesn’t.

———

When he’s seventeen he trips home woozy and and delighted with himself, and you can smell exactly what transpired on his skin. You congratulate him and then you hide yourself away in your room, trying to breathe. But there’s no air for you in this house.

Instead you climb to the roof and smoke half a pack there and when you get back Dave is demanding dinner and the routine of his needs and wants buries the ache inside you, lets it fester in the warm dark crevices of your body.

———

Heats have always sucked for you. You can’t describe it, because it isn’t physical. You can deal with the physical part of it, that’s normal and average. What sucks is knowing that you won’t ever find someone to take you through it. Even if you weren’t the worst kind of omega, you’re still infertile and stuck with a kid to raise that everyone can smell on your skin. There’s no one in the world who would fuck something like you, and the few that would only do it because they think omegas like you are easier and more desperate. Less likely to protest cruelty. Which you are, maybe. You’ve been known to list into the hands of alphas who touch your jaw or back. But just because you’re _easy_ doesn’t mean you’re going to give in—you have Dave. Which is probably weird. But knowing that getting hitched to an alpha would spell the end of your ability to take care of Dave the way he deserves helps you to push away the temptation to hand off your problems to someone else. And that’s the important thing.

It’s a moot point, anyway, because heats hit rarely for you. The last one was almost a decade back, and then you realised that leaving Dave alone for long enough to (fail to) find a partner was far too fucking risky, and you got the strongest suppressors you could find. These knock your hormones out so hard you don’t even smell like anything, and that’s good. That’s what you need.

But it appears you’ve grown complacent, and your body has had enough of your shit.

It hits you while you’re out shopping, of all the times. Later on you’ll look back on this day and note that you’d felt tired and restless for a few days beforehand.

But right now—you’re too shocked by it to really think, the unfamiliar and painful buzz of cold heat under your skin rendering you stupid and useless. Even compromised, however, you have enough self-awareness to realise that a half-empty grocery store is no place to lose your head, and you use everything that’s left in you to call Dave.

“Hey,” you croak, the second he picks up the phone. You can sense his immediate alarm.

“Hi,” Dave says. “Are you alright?”

“Come pick me up,” you order. “The grocery store—the usual one. Please.” You never say please. That’s probably why he skips over asking you what he gets for doing this. You walk yourself out and lean against a streetlamp in the parking lot until he pulls over.

“Holy shit,” he says when he sees you. Dimly you’re aware that he doesn’t know you’re an omega—and what a way to break it to him. “What the fuck, Bro?”

You lean against the cool glass of the window—you can’t recall getting in. “Just drive.” In a small, enclosed area, the smell of him is intoxicating. You can’t tell apart what’s _Dave_ and _younger brother_ and what’s _alpha_ and _safety,_ and you aren’t quite sure there’s a difference. There’s no one else in the world you would allow to see you like this. There’s no one else who you even remotely trust. _Dave_ and _alpha_ are inextricable, and you’re too empty and shaky and exhausted inside to be objective about this. Everything you’re thinking is weighed down by the ice leading your nerves.

Dave fumbles you inside the house. You’re gasping for air that wasn’t his first, trying to clear your head, but Dave pushes you against the door and holds you there and you had forgotten what it felt like to have an alpha right up against you, but you have always known what it feels like to have _Dave_ this close, and your eyes can’t see properly so you have to close them. Give in and breathe.

“Let me,” Dave murmurs, rubbing a hand soothingly over the cut of your hip. It tears you inside, how gentle he is with you. “Let me take care of you.” You’ve never felt deserving of him and you certainly don’t feel deserving now, but Dave knows your tells as well as you know his. He knows how to pin you down and take the fight out of you. The worst part is that for _him_ there’s no trick to it—all he needs to do is ask.

And he is asking now, with his stupidly talented mouth and soft-kind hands. He’s asking if he can take care of you when you’re like this, and the answer is yes. Even though it shouldn’t be, even though it’s wrong.

But you are so very tired and your skin is on fire and no one has ever done this to you—ever even offered, because everybody can smell your brokenness on your skin—no wants you. But he does.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you say hoarsely. But you tip forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Dave smiles. Takes you inside.

Your room, instead of his. He wants you to feel safer and more in control. You don’t know how to process that in the span of time it takes him to manhandle you onto the bed.

“Are we really doing this,” you ask warily. You’ve pretty much always wanted to, on some level. Known that there was never going to be anyone else for you. But you’d resigned yourself to being the only person who felt that way. And you’ve lived with it for so long that you’re not even bitter or jealous anymore, just tired and lonely.

He brushes your hair back from your sweaty forehead. Your skin feels hot and cool in the wake of his fingers. “Yes,” he repeats, and then his hand stills. You whine. “Unless you don’t want to—?”

You blink. “Dave, I don’t. My wanting. _Really_ isn’t the problem.” You shake your head without thinking it through, dislodging his hand completely. “I do want,” you mumble. “But _you_ don’t.”

Instead of replying he kisses you. Surprisingly talented with his mouth. You open up easy, and he takes and takes and takes. “I want,” he says when he pulls away. He’s watching you, bright-eyed and intense.

He slides off you without warning, and the little starved thing inside you cries out. But then he’s nudging your thighs apart so he can kneel between them, smirk at you when you stare. “You don’t have to—” you start, but he’s already messing with the zipper on your jeans.

“Shut up, you know it’ll take the edge off.” And there it is again, that rush of hot ice breaking inside you. Your cunt feels overly hot and wet—is that normal? Dave would know.

It occurs to you suddenly that you haven’t done this in over a decade. There’s no way you take a knot, not without a lot of patient prep. But Dave is already sliding down your underwear and then his mouth is on you and the ability to think coherently leaves you entirely.

There’s surprising talent, and then there’s whatever the fuck he’s doing to you down there, which feels rather like he’s turning you inside out, except that his tongue is wet and gentle and his hands are caressing your thighs and oh fuck when did you become quite so easy, eking an orgasm out of you is no work at _all._

“You’re so easy,” Dave murmurs. You let out a hysterical little burst of laughter.

“I haven’t done this in years, asshole.”

His head snaps up. “Wait, really?”

“When was I going to? Between you and work—the fuck, Dave?”

He looks so disappointed and saddened that you want to hide. It’s practically an instinct, the urge to not dissatisfy one’s alpha, to never be responsible for making them feel bad. You don’t know how to not feel like a pathetic failure, like you’re shriveling up inside. You’ve never had to deal with this.

But _he_ knows. His eyes soften, and he reaches forward to grab your hands. Kisses the backs of your fingers. Your tension eases. “Thank you,” he says kindly. You nearly sob.

“Just fuck me, asshole.”

He grins, terrifying. “You asked.”

Nerves take over again. “Wait, Dave.”

“Yeah?”

“I probably can’t take a knot—I haven’t in years and heats are rare for me—”

Dave’s eyes darken. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dave repeats. “It’s my problem, not yours.”

You don’t see how that’s at all true, but Dave’s using his alpha voice, and you’re helpless to against it.

He tackles you around the bed until he has you where he wants you—your back against the wall, legs spread. You aren’t sure where he finds lube—you’re fairly certain you don’t have any, but the important thing is that he has it and he’s, _oh._ He’s going to finger you now.

You’re relieved.

Being kissed and fingered at the same time is an experience, not one you’ve ever had the privilege of. It feels right that your first time is with Dave. He coaxes you loose and relaxed, mouth on your skin banking the flames licking through your body. You’re not sure how many orgasms later he finally lets you go, while you’re not quite sated so much as content. Awash in blissful warmth, wrapped in Dave’s arms. He hasn’t fucked you yet and your heat won’t break until he does, but it’s muted now. A calm sea lapping at the shore instead of a shrieking storm. You’re okay, for now.

Okay enough that he can slip away to get you both food. He comes back with crackers and cheese and fresh fruit you don’t know where he found, as well as water. He feeds you the fruit and lets you handle the crackers on your own, and you bask in the scent of his skin until you start to feel lost and itchy again.

This time though, you’re more prepared. You don’t remember anything after the third orgasm but you’re pretty damn sure he hasn’t come yet, and while you admire his self-control you’re also eager to see it crack. You crawl over him until you’re between his legs, your positions swapped. Dave smiles at you. “Wouldn’t you rather be fucked right now?” he says gently.

You don’t know how to react to that, but you want this now. You can’t figure out a way to say that that doesn’t sound hopelessly sappy, even though that’s a boat that has long sailed. “Just—” you mumble. And he must get it, because he tugs you forward.

His cock is hard and flushed pink, and even though you’re undeniably exhausted your cunt twitches. “Dave,” you whisper admiringly. When you look back up, he’s blushing.

“Get to it,” he demands grumpily. You grin at him, holding his eyes as you lean down to lick at the tip of his cock. He gasps.

You settle into it, fisting his cock even as you mouth at the tip, never quite giving him enough—you’re a lot out of practice but teasing is fun, and it’s only fair payback for the way he made you beg earlier. His cock tastes like you expect it to, your feelings for it colored by heat and lust. And as much joy as you get out of leaving him hanging, you’re not too interested in denying yourself longer. You let yourself slide down on his dick, reveling in how it feels filling your mouth and throat.

You aren’t really aware of the whines spilling out of you, and they mix in with Dave’s groans—muffled by the fist he has pressed into his teeth—so it hardly matters anyway. But you want to hear him so you pull off and glare at him. He glares right back at you.

“What do you want?” he says, aggravated.

“Hand,” you say imperiously, if nonsensically.

A minute later one of his hands is curled in your hair and the other is stroking lightly at your jaw. You hum as you sink down again, pleased to have this in a way that goes beyond your heat. You like doing this, and you’re pretty certain you would like it even if you weren’t in heat. Weren’t hormonally inclined to fall briefly in love with the nearest alpha—on the contrary, you’ve been in love with Dave for years and loved him for longer. You just never thought that requitment was within your grasp.

His hands tighten in your hair as you bob your head—it takes you a second to realise that that insistent tugging is him trying to warn you that he’s about to come. You smile privately, ducking your head even farther, startlingly aroused by the pain that’s he’s causing you with his desperate fucking yanking. And then he’s coming down your throat with a muffled groan and you swallow, because you like this and you’re weak.

He’s grinning at you, proud, and you’re too surprised to hide your own smile. He tugs you back up so you can lie against each other, hands rubbing down your flanks. “Now look what you’ve done,” he says scoldingly, and you smile even wider into his chest. “How do you expect me to fuck you after—after that?”

“Eat me out again,” you suggest.

He snorts. “That won’t break your heat, you know that.”

“No.” You roll away from him and stretch, inducing a series of wince-inducing pops all along your body. “But it would make me happy.”

He rolls his eyes. “We need to break your heat,” he says. You make a soft, pleading sound. “Bro, don’t you want to be fucked?” You whine again. He shakes his head at you, but he eats you out, and that’s what matters.

Okay, maybe you’re trying to prolong this because you’re afraid of what will happen to you after it’s over. You can’t bear the idea that he might be disgusted with you, but you’re well aware that he may be angry. And he has a right to be, doesn’t he? You’ve never lied to him outright, but he always assumed you were either an alpha with a muted scent or a beta, and you never bothered to correct him either. Perhaps because you were afraid that knowing you were an omega would shatter your meager authority over him, or because you were ashamed. And later it didn’t seem to be all that apparent. Infertile omegas often ceased to have heats—you thought that was the case with you too. Of course you could not be so lucky.

You’re sleepy and useless afterwards, and when you tug at him he lies down next to you obligingly. You fall asleep to him scenting you.

———

You’re rudely woken by a nasty dream, heat and horror washing through you, breaking the little peace that unconsciousness afforded you. Your panic wakes up Dave, who pulls you into his arms and rocks you until your anxiety subsides. You don’t know where that came from and you’re sorry and you’re trying to convey that to him when it feels like you’re being eaten alive by grief—the dregs of that horrible lonely dream still clinging to the edges of your mind, and it doesn’t matter to him at all. He whispers soothingly into your hair and anchors you until that storm passes and you’re left hollow and wrecked and wanting.

“Fuck me now?” you ask, and Dave’s eyes darken.

“Alright,” he says, climbing off the bed.

He’s back soon enough, already ripping the condom packet with his teeth; it’s a mark of how gone you are for him that you manage to find that hot and not irresponsible.

“You don’t need that,” you tell him as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Huh?”

“Think,” you snap at him. Watch the gears in his unfairly pretty head turn.

Finally, light dawns. “You’re infertile,” he says, like he’s hoping he’s wrong. That more than anything crushes the air out of your lungs. And you don’t trust your voice not to break, so you don’t reply at all.

He tugs you closer until he can kiss you, mouth brushing against your neck and across your shoulders. You’re becoming hyper-aware of how un-omega-like you are, how far from what you should be and what’s desirable for people of your sex.

It doesn’t seem to matter to Dave at all; yet again you’ve never really trusted his priorities and you aren’t about to start now. But you hate that you care about this, you hate that after two decades of pushing your body into being a tool you can actually use and never regretting it, you’re now mourning the body you used to have, the one that was delicate and beautiful and worth caring for.

Dave nuzzles in just under your jaw, and you squeak embarrassingly, pulled rudely back into your body. “Stop thinking,” He orders. He’s so close and he’s scenting you like he intends to bite you, and your body responds predictably to it, your head tilting back to allow him better access to the vulnerable patch of skin he’s courting. He smells like everything you’ve ever craved and knowing that’s just your heat-sappy body doesn’t make it easier to withstand.

He holds you close as he probes at your cunt—even the softest touch makes you gasp and clench helplessly. Dave chuckles softly, mouths at your scent glands long enough to distract you as he slips in a couple fingers right to the knuckle. It’s too much; the sound that escapes you is startlingly loud. “You can take it,” Dave says reassuringly, mistaking your cry. Like you’re not suddenly, desperately into the idea of him fucking into you when you _can’t_ take it.

God. You’re so far gone it’s no longer funny.

You’ve resigned yourself to your own slutty moaning. Dave is a surprisingly quiet lover, all his attention focused on turning you inside out with pleasure. His fingers, once you adjust to them, are perfect inside you (you’re making yourself sick thinking like this but you can’t seem to stop), every so often brushing against your prostate and making you clench around him again.

You’re blissing out, growing complacent. The heat’s still in you, and it won’t let you go until you get a knot. Dave is better at staying on task than you are, though, because he pulls out his fingers when he judges you sufficiently stretched—you open your eyes to level a glare at him and are instead greeted by the sight of him licking at the fingers he just took out of you, shorting out your brain.

He doesn’t bother with a condom, which you’re inordinately pleased about—you like the idea of being marked up inside with his come, and the omega in you particularly likes that he’s not going to be able to look at you after this without thinking about the fact that he came in you, that shit is _special_ and you’ll kill someone before you let him not give that to you.

And oh, okay. You’ve seen his dick, you know it’s big. You still aren’t prepared. You’re not sure it’s possible to be.

But you’re relaxed and easy and you trust him, and the way he slips into you, painless and smooth and easy feels like a reward. “Dave,” you whisper hoarsely. He kisses you like he doesn’t know what to say either, and you can’t with that, not right now. “Dave, say something,” you beg.

“God,” he rasps against your mouth. “What do I even say, Bro? You’re so tight—”

You clench unwittingly, and that hurt grounds you even as Dave grips your hips and groans. “Fuck me,” you tell him, and he obeys. His hands on your hips tighten comfortingly as he pulls out before slamming back in and this is killing you in the best ways, the drag of his dick against your cunt shorting out your mind. He thrusts into you over and over and you sob a little as you reach for him, trying to get him to be closer to you. To scent you.

Between Dave nibbling at your jaw and murmuring soothing nonsense into your skin, it takes only another few strokes before he’s coming, groaning as he spills inside you. His knot swells within you; you can practically feel it changing the internal landscape of your body. And that’s a thought that could push you right over the edge if his knot hadn’t already done that, hadn’t already turned your spine into liquid-sweet gold.

Coming down takes longer. You’re oversensitive as his knot shifts within you and fairly certain you’re actively crying. The way he’s petting your back and shushing you is tinged with desperation, like he doesn’t know how to deal with this at all and you, you don’t blame him but you feel trashed up inside even as you’re full and satisfied—you can’t trust the comfort he’s giving you.

It takes a while for your mind to clear enough for the words he’s saying to penetrate (ha). They’re gentle, variations on a theme of normal post-heat pillowtalk—even if all your experiences with that come from sleazy porn and bad actions movies _—I won’t leave you, I have you, you’re so good._ It’s dumb and cliche but it eases your worry enough that you can actually focus on how good it feels to be so full and comfortable and cared for.

Dave has fallen silent. You look at him, noting the his flushed cheeks and red mouth and the way his eyes are also a little wet. You want to poke at him, make him stop looking so serious. He’d probably be annoyed at you for ruining the moment. “How,” you say hoarsely. “Everything good? Dave?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, yeah.” Busies himself retrieving the bottle of water he has stashed away, drinking about half before he passes it to you.

You drink the water. You’re not dumb, you know the dangers of dehydration. But your heart sinks as he pads around the room getting a napkin to clean both of you up, because he’s studiously avoiding your eyes and you’re not sure you have the guts to handle this.

You want to be sure of him. You’ve always been able to predict his behavior, but you didn’t predict this at all and you aren’t sure you can guess what’s next with any degree of accuracy. That’s scary and it makes you sick. He could do anything—leave, call the cops, refuse to talk about this at all. And you can’t be sure you’d survive the heartbreak of it.

But you’ve never been the one to break first and you aren’t starting now. You thank him blandly and half-sarcastically before kicking him out of your room so you can clean it out and do your laundry, anything to get rid of the lingering smell of Dave and his fucking alpha hormones.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Everything will go back to normal.

———

They do not go back to normal.

You’re predictably tired and cranky post-heat, but Dave is fucking miserable. You almost want to throw something at his head, tell him this is in his hands. He mopes around the house and totally fails to fuck anyone other than you, and looks so guilty every time you cook for him that you stop doing that simply because you can’t stand his fucking cow eyes.

He breaks first, but by the time he does you’re strongly considering giving in yourself. Every further day into this unhappy armistice between you feels like another tiny defeat. They’re piling up on you.

He accosts you one evening after dinner and before you turn in for the night. “Can we talk?”

“What if I say no?” you taunt. This is rote, but he snarls. You can see the cogs turning in his head as he tries to find the combinations of words which will get him what he wants.

He settles on, “Please?”

_Manipulative little bastard._

“Fine,” you say grudgingly. Sprawl on the couch so he has to stand awkwardly or spend an even more awkward few minutes clearing out the armchair.

He picks the second option. You watch him, your sadism easily satisfied. Better anyway to get it out of the way now instead of later. _This is a conversation_ , you tell yourself. _This is important_.

Oh, fuck. You’ve never been very good at that kinda shit.

Dave isn’t either. You guys sit in awkward silence for a couple minutes, before he goes, “Bro?” He looks terribly small. Protectiveness surges in you, totally useless.

“I’ll start,” you say decidedly, even though you have no fucking clue what you’re going to say. He looks relieved. You take a moment to collect your thoughts, consider and discard the idea of lying to him. Every halfway believable lie will destroy your relationship with him, and the idea of not having Dave in any capacity is too painful to contemplate. “I didn’t tell you about me being an omega because, well. It never really mattered. I was on suppressants and I didn’t get heats and functionally I’m pretty much a beta, so I never felt the need to tell you.”

He’s starting to look sad. “I wouldn’t have minded knowing.”

You shrug. He’s not getting an apology from you and he can stop fishing for it anytime he likes.

“I’m glad I know _now_ though,” he says. Fidgets with his sleeve. “You’re—I _like_ you, Bro. I want to be with you.”

You snort disbelievingly. “I lied to you for two decades.”

His lips twitch. “Forgiven.”

“What do you want?” you ask, unable to help yourself. “From this, from me?”

Dave hesitates, his face going through emotions too fast to name each one. “A relationship,” he says uncertainly. “I want to be with you.” He’s being honest. You hate him a little.

“I can give you that,” you say steadily. He starts to grin. You hold up a finger. “I cannot give you marriage, or children, or something to tell your friends about. Are you okay with that?” You’re not even sure why you’re pointing this out—except for some last-ditch attempt at protecting him.

He’s still grinning, the idiot. You roll your eyes but he’s crossing over to you, dropping down next to the couch so he can peer up at you. He hasn’t been shorter than you in a couple of years, and it makes you nostalgic. “Hi,” he says softly.

You roll your eyes again. “What now, brat?”

Dave kisses you, hands coming up to cup your neck and bring your head down, scratching gently at the back of your scalp. His mouth is warm and sweet and he’s a touch hesitant which is, oh. Good to know you still hold _some_ power here.

You might’ve said that out loud, because he laughs softly. “Bro,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You’ve always—you have everything.”

You can’t name the emotion that rushes through you, some kind of vicious satisfaction. “Damn right I do,” you tell him, and then you’re kissing again but harder than before. He’s pliant and lets you drag him up onto the sofa to straddle you, touching you frantically like he thinks you’re going to vanish from under him. He’s way more turned on than you are so you let him rub himself off against your hip and murmur encouragingly to him as he does.

Dave comes with a muffled moan that sounds suspiciously like your name. He struggles briefly against your insistence on holding him, but gives in when you wrap your arms all the way around him and throw a leg over his to keep him down. Falls asleep just like that. Eventually the steady beating of his heart and the warmth of his body pulls you down too.

You’re both going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> \- for anyone wondering about Bro's biology: he has a cunt and he doesn't have breasts unless he gets pregnant. I made this up. also, I used 'prostate' instead of 'g-spot' because I have a fundamental objection to an erogenous zone being named the 'grafenburg spot'  
> \- any missteps in characterization are my own  
> \- there was in fact an alternate ending where Bro gets pregnant, but the entire concept of incestuous pregnancy squicked me out enough that I removed it. regardless, I have about 700 words of that route if anyone wants to see it.  
> \- title comes from hunger by florence welch, which is a really good song and recommended listening for this fic. I didn't listen to it as I wrote it, though - I was mostly crying to phoebe bridgers. as one does.  
> \- if you notice spelling/grammar errors, kindly consider leaving a comment to tell me about it. or just leaving a comment, like, in general.


End file.
